


Sorted for e's and wizz

by xXPiss_BabyXx



Category: South Park
Genre: AU, Angst, Bitch Stan, Depression, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Explicit Language, Goth Stan Marsh, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots of Angst, Mental Health Issues, Mindfuck, Multi, Potential Switching POV, Shit, Suicide Attempt, Tension, Unfinished, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Tension, impressionist, lots of characters, more tags, ongoing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXPiss_BabyXx/pseuds/xXPiss_BabyXx
Summary: "Sadness flies away on the wings of time. Too bad my internal clock is broke."His parents called it quits, his sister left for college, and all his friends couldn't bear to be seen with him knowing how much of a drug abusing junkie he was. But, things are different after Stan's attempted suicide.((Hits are really nice, but it would be very helpful if you left a Kudos or a comment as to why you hate it. This helps me get better at writing and become less of a disappointment to my peers, thank you.))
Kudos: 12





	1. Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say we're all the same and now it's, "Nice one"  
> "Geezer"  
> But that's as far as the conversation went  
> I lost my friends, I dance alone  
> It's six o'clock, I wanna go home  
> But it's, "No way, " "Not today, "

Imagine a world where everything is moving agonizingly slow, as if someone had tampered with the playback speed at which the universe is set at a default. Imagine sitting down, watching the time tick on as it would, while everyone around you was 3 days behind. Time had wrapped them up in a loop, feet buried in mud, shit falling from their mouth and splattering on the table before them as they lifted a fork from their plate for another bite of dark, warm shit. There were words between the chewing, most likely important ones too, but they fell on deaf ears.

It was another monotonous morning, one without color or sound. There was nothing to hear within the two-story house’s walls, nothing but the sound of shit falling to the floor from the mouths of those who chewed it. The hours drug on endlessly, though time wasn’t really moving at all. He watches the clock tick on and on, slowly churning out another minute gone by. Another minute where he had done nothing but sit in the house of disgusting, idiotic, shit-munchers. 

“Stanley, you haven't touched your food again.” Sharon sighed and wiped the remnants of an egg from her face with a nearby napkin. The woman’s nails were painted with a transparent top-coat. She had been growing them out while away. He wondered if she liked her time out of the house, pretending as if everything was okay — as if she were someone else.

“I don’t know why you even bother feeding that freak.” Shelly spoke, sipping orange juice from a glass with a sneer on her face. It was wrong for her to be there, dripping liquid shit from her lips onto the tablecloth. The tablecloth was haphazardly thrown across the maple surface, as if it wasn’t hiding away in a cupboard somewhere for the past year and a half. “He’s not going to eat it anyway, just look at him!”

“Shelly, would you pipe down already! God dammit, no one in this house can ever shut up, can they?” Randy, shit spraying from his face, slammed his meaty hands on the tabletop. The brown mess splattered onto the wall behind Sharon, staining it and causing a foul stench to fill the room. “Who cares if he finishes his food! I wouldn’t eat this shit either.” The man shoves the plate aside and leaves in a hurry, shit falling off in clods from the bottom of his shoes. 

Stan looks at Sharon, at Shelly, his face sunken and slowed. There was no emotion there, nothing but shit falling from his own mouth and onto his hands. The plate before him, piling high with steaming dog mess, lay untouched. His fork still where it had been set hours earlier. His pale eyes were hidden deep within their sockets, buried far into his green-tinged face. His gaunt cheekbones were sharp enough to cut paper.

“God, _look at him, mom_!” Shelly slammed her glass down and kicked her chair out from under the table, shit flying all over Stan’s dry face. His eyelids cracked as he blinked slowly. “He’s on fucking crack or something. Look at this meth-head! I can’t believe you actually stick up for him. No wonder dad doesn’t talk to you. _God. ”_

“Shelly, god dammit!” Sharon slammed her own utensils down and stared at her daughter, shaking in what was a mix of rage or sorrow. Shit flew all over Stan’s face once more, burning his eyes with their e. Coli infested chunks. She looks shocked, scared, guilty almost at the words that had left her mouth. The woman sighs shakily and sits back down, putting her head between her hands, as if they could somehow protect her from the world- protect her from this situation, if only she shrank down enough. “I’m sorry. Just.. do what you’re doing.”

Stan watched Shelly leave, hours going by as she finally left the room. The clock continued to mock him, shit growing stale where it lies. He looked down at his plate, eyes slowly finding their target. The shit had flies on it, cold and slowly turning white. It had been there awhile; the nuggets crumbling to a fine powder without him moving his arms of sand. 

“Stanley, please. Eat something before you go. Please?” She was begging, as if her life depended on it, but her pleading fell on empty ears. Her voice was drowned out by the sickening sound of shit being gargled in the back of her throat. The hoarse, cracking whispers never made it to his inner eardrum.

The clock chimed as it hit 7:00 o’ clock.Stan slowly stood, blinking in the way a tortoise might. Everything was dismal, agonizingly slowed down to the point he would wonder if things were even moving at all. Shit fell out of his jacket pockets. The fabric hung three sizes bigger than it did last week. There was a minor comfort in the many folds it created across his fragile frame. He felt caught up in them, drug away in the vast expanse of black that was an ocean across his chest, the tide pulling in from his knees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sorted for E’s and Wizz' is a phrase a girl that I met in Sheffield once told me… and she went to see The Stone Roses at Spike Island and I said "what do you remember about it?”. And she said “Well there were all these blokes walking around saying ‘Is everybody sorted for E’s and wizz?’” And that’s all she remembered about it and I thought it was a good phrase." -- Jarvis, Pulp
> 
> It really is a good phrase.  
> \-- Piss_Baby


	2. Underwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If fashion is your trade then when you're naked  
> I guess you must be unemployed, yeah  
> But once it's underway, there's no escaping"

The way to the bus stop was long and winding. Every second that passed carried the same weight of Two In The Morning. The wind was bitter, slapping his slight frame back and forth. He was dead, lying in a ditch somewhere and waiting for some poor, unfortunate soul to stumble across the rotting corpse he was.The ground beneath Stan’s feet was shit. Cold, bitter shit. The brown substance rose and swelled around his feet, trying to drag him down into their pungent abyss of skatole. There was nothing but the sound of every tight, suctioned step the entire way to the street sign up on the hill.

The sun’s glare reflected off the bright yellow triangle that had once been such a familiar greeting. School had been an escape for the Marsh boy, a place he could be himself uninterrupted. Things were different ever since High School. Ever since…The whispers abruptly came to a screeching halt; the silence almost deafening now, as Stan made his way to his once usual spot in line. He kept his pale eyes on the horizon, not bothering to take in the scene before him. Around him. Stan knew what they wanted to know, what they were thinking. What everyone was talking about.  
  
  
The scars on his wrists seared deeper into his flesh, reducing the dark-haired boy to nothing but a pile of ashes where he stood. He was insignificant. Meaningless. Another page in the yearbook no one would care to look at come the end of next year. His limbs melted to shit as he hit the floor in a loose heap of crumbling ass nuggets.  
  


“Dude, do you fuckin’ see that, dude?” The chubby teen had grabbed the redheaded male, whispering all too loudly into his ear. His breath smelled like Lays Original, something Stan could smell as far away as he was. It smelled like shit. Liquid, oozing waste-- the kind that came with eating too much fried chicken in one sitting. The green tinged smoothie of fecal matter fell to the floor in a reeking puddle.

  
”Get the fuck off me, you fuckin’ fatass! Of course I see it!” The boy shoved him off violently, an equally disgusting compound flying form his own mouth, as he began threatening to kick ass if they repeated the action. Stan’s eyes rolled into his head as he tilted his gaze towards the end of the line. It was different now, strained almost. The once peaceful atmosphere that accompanied the wait to school had all but disappeared.

“Uh-uh, heya Stanley-” The blonde walked over to the Marsh boy, setting a hand on his shoulder. His teeth were stained brown, gobs of crap smeared all over them. “Uh- m-my mom and dad told me about what happened and- uh- if you ever need anyone...” His voice became more determined and steady, eyes narrowing in his stern gaze. “Well, then you just tell me, okay? We’re friends, you know. And I don’t care if I get grounded or- or beat up for it.”  
  
  
Stan’s ears remained untouched. He reached up a thin, bony hand to push the other male away. His blue eyes focused on the floor now, boring holes into the shit-covered pavement, wishing to be anywhere but here. Wishing to be somewhere he could hide, get away, disappear… The boy reached into his pocket and retrieved a cigarette, examining the broken body carefully before pulling out a lighter. It was good enough and would have to do for now. The orange flame burned hot in his shit covered hands, slowly growing higher as it came into contact with the white paper. The smell of smoke filled the air as he took a drag, all eyes watching intently.  
  


Stan exhales, shakily. The feelings of hunger, of _l_ _oneliness_ had gone away for now. It was amazing what one small roll of paper could do for you, what power one Zippo lighter carried in its belly. He turns to the blonde, a cynical and nihilistic sneer on his face. “Fuck you, Butters.”

The bus slowly pulled up and opened its doors, a mountain of shit raining down upon the students, and they scrambled to fight their way through it up the stairs. Stan waded through the brown mass, struggling to keep his head above the clumpy waters, as he found a seat in the front. He’d be forced to sit here for the rest of the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This is about going home with someone, which seems like a good thing to do when you decide to do it. But when you get to the actual nitty-gritty, when you are actually standing in your underwear you think I can’t go through with this, but how do you get out of that situation?" -- Jarvis, Pulp (Underwear).
> 
> I don't even like this band.  
> \-- Piss_Baby


	3. Roadblock

My brother is off on military things and i'm extremely depressed. Normally this works in my favor since all I write is shit like this. Its not this time. I have horrible writer's block right now. I'll probably get over it in a few days but until then, if anyone has ideas they want to add to this story, just comment them.


End file.
